Dinner Date
by XeroSanity
Summary: It's a few days after the solving of the Study in Pink, and the high from solving a case is starting to ware off. John is completely oblivious to Sherlock's growing attraction to him, but he himself is starting to feel the same. John loves the thrill and excitement he feels, solving cases with the almond eyed, pale, dark haired detective, and his beauty is undeniable. But how...
1. Dinner

It's a few days after the solving of the Study in Pink, and the high from solving a case is starting to wear off. John is completely oblivious to Sherlock's growing attraction to him, but he himself is starting to feel the same. John loves the thrill and excitement he feels, solving cases with the almond-eyed, pale, dark haired detective, and his beauty is undeniable. But how do you go about asking the smartest man in London on a date when he's also the most thick-headed, socially-inept and bluntly rude sociopath on the planet?

 **Author's Note: I've had this idea in my head for quite some time now. Any suggestions/Criticisms/ and Review are more than welcome, of course. I intended for this to be a one-shot story, but if anyone is interested in it being longer or me adding more to it, let me know!**

 **-XeroSanity**

Dinner

Sherlock was lying on the sofa pushed against the wall, searching "The Science of Deduction" website on his phone for a new case. It had been four days since "The Study in Pink" as John called it had come to a close. He was starting to get bored.

And frankly, the adorable, loyal and at the same time sassy army doctor across the room from him was making it difficult for Sherlock to concentrate.

The moment they met, Sherlock was immediately intrigued and attracted to Dr. Watson. In fact, in his own way, he'd made it a point to flirt with him the second he'd walked into the Forensics room at Barts...

* * *

An initial set of knocks at the door didn't divert Sherlock's attention for one moment as he was distributing a few drops of saline solution to a lab sample.

But when he heard the second set of steps entering the room, he straightened up and took a second to glance over at the entryway, curiosity overtaking him.

He did not expect what he saw.

An attractive man with an upturned nose, sandy brown hair and a softness in his eyes as if he'd been through hardship. His clothes were simple and clean, but not expensive by any means. He was limping, relying on the support of a cane and Sherlock desperately wanted another excuse to look at him.

"Bit different from my day," the man said.

Sherlock froze at hearing the stranger's voice.

He very much liked the warmth and yet confident superiority that emanated from his tone.

 _A graduate of Barts, then. He used to be a student here._

 _He must be a doctor._

 _And despite having a limp, he stands rod straight and he's not asking for a chair as if he's forgotten about it. It's psychosomatic, then._ _And since the limp is psychosomatic, he's been through some kind of trauma and most likely sustained the injury from said trauma._

Wounded in action. Doctor with a psychosomatic limp.

Military man.

 _Army doctor._

Sherlock needed to come up with something. Anything, anything to find out more information about this attractive stranger.

This stranger who he would most likely be sharing a flat with him.

He took notice of the fact that Mike didn't have his coat with him, which meant he probably didn't have a cell phone on him, either.

 _Time to test your character, mystery man_ , Sherlock thought. He had an idea. "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." It was a lie, but he added that last bit for good measure.

"And what's wrong with a landline?" Mike retorted.

 _Yes, that's right, keep refusing me._ "I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat," Mike said regretfully.

 _Good. Now what will the soft-spoken stranger do?_

"Uh, here," the man placed a hand down his back pocket and produced his own cell phone. "Use mine." His eyes were earnest and trusting, having no problem lending his phone to a complete stranger.

 _So he's generous, kind, and trusting. All good qualities._ This little experiment was indeed telling of this man's character, as Sherlock had hoped. "Oh. Thank you," he said as if he were completely surprised by the course of action that had ensued.

"This is my friend, John Watson," Mike so helpfully supplied.

 _Finally, a name to the face,_ Sherlock thought with relief, slowly walking forward to receive the phone. A _fter saying it would be impossible to find myself a flatmate, Mike has produced a candidate for me just after lunch._

He immediately noticed up close that the man had a tan. But as he reached forward to hand Sherlock his cell phone, he saw that John had a tan line on his wrist.

 _He's been abroad, but not likely for vacation, he isn't dressed as someone who can afford to take frequent vacations and he doesn't have the air of someone who has much leisure time._

Sherlock was able to deduce several facts about John simply by holding his phone.

 _The phone was a gift, it's rather expensive. It's tarnished with wear and tear, but John obviously wouldn't treat a luxury item such as this with such carelessness considering he doesn't appear to be a person who can often afford luxury items often, so it's had a previous owner. The insertion point for a charger is all scratched up, indicating that the previous owner was a frequent drinker. The name on the back is Harry Watson. Not a distant relative, so probably his brother._

As Sherlock opened the phone to shoot a text, he took a shot in the dark. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he inquired. He sent a text to himself so he'd have John's number, then promptly deleted it.

John looked up at him in surprise, and suddenly Sherlock could sense the barrier he'd put up around himself. "I'm sorry?"

 _No no no, no barriers with me, John. That really won't do_. "Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?" _Time to display my intellectual prowess._

There was a pause.

Sherlock felt a knot of doubt in his stomach. _Will he tell me, or will he just say to piss off like all the others?_

"Afghanastan..I'm sorry but how did you - "

At that moment, they were interrupted by Molly.

 _Oh right, the coffee._ Sherlock held his composure, deciding to use this as a perfect opportunity to show his complete disinterest in women. "Ah, Molly! Coffee, thank you," he said, barely looking at her for longer than two seconds, but long enough to see a change. "What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me," she said as if it had been _her_ decision alone.

 _It's because I said something. Ugh, people can be so impressionable sometimes._

But now it was time to display his disregard for the opposite sex for John. "Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouth's too...small now," he took the coffee and turned away before he'd even finished his sentence.

 _That's right, Dr. Watson. She's nothing to me. Barely an assistant, and definitely not a love interest by any means._

Molly's "okay" as she left the room had been laced with dejection and disappointment.

Now to pounce the big questions. "How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked, not looking at John as he asked.

"Sorry, what?" Sherlock saw out of the corner of his eye that John had shifted his weight, probably restless due to his confusion.

'I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end...would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." He looked up from his work, shooting John a soft, warm smile.

John's eyes shifted to Mike. "Oh, you...you told him about me?"

Mike shook his head. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flatmates?" John shifted his weight again.

 _A sign of nervousness,_ Sherlock concluded. Or was it excitement? Intrigue? He hoped it was the latter.

Sherlock began gathering his coat and tying his scarf on. _Best to leave now before anything has come to fruition. I want John Watson's thoughts consumed with curiosity about me._ " _I_ did. I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. " Sherlock shrugged on his coat. "Now here he is, just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan." He wrapped his scarf around his neck. "Wasn't a difficult leap," he assured him.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John inquired, looking down before looking back up. Another sign that he was uncomfortable being known about when he didn't know anything about the person with whom he was speaking.

 _No, best to leave some things to the imagination._ _I'll let you stew over that one._ Sherlock had to hold back a smile and act as though he was incredibly busy. "Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we should be able to afford it." He checked his phone quickly to make sure the text had gone through. _John's number is now in my possession._ "We'll meet there tomorrow evening, 7:00." he proposed. "Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the Mortuary." _Who gives a damn about the riding crop, but surely that statement will confuse him further, increasing his interest._

Now to see if Sherlock's little peacocking technique had worked on the helpless doctor.

Sherlock had his hand on the doorknob.

"Is that it?" John's voice asked from behind him.

Sherlock grinned to himself but quickly made it dissipate as he turned around.

"Is that what?" his eyes meeting John's. _I've broken the ice, now time to retain his attention._

"We've only just met, and we're going to go look at a flat?" John's tone was guarded, but not entirely closed off. He was searching for some justification that this was a good idea.

 _I'll give it to you, Dr. Watson._ "Problem?" he asked _. Just tell me what you want to say, and I'll dazzle you._

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting, I don't even know your name."

Sherlock's gaze was intense and fixed on Watson as he spoke. "I know you're an army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, and more likely because he recently walked out on his wife." _The name Clara on the back of the phone._ "And I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid." John glanced down at his leg. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Sherlock said, concluding his monologue of knowledge.

He turned to exit, and just before leaving out the door, he leaned his head out and said, "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221 B Baker street." He clicked his tongue. "Afternoon," he proclaimed to Mike before exiting.

Before the door had even closed, Sherlock briskly walked down the hall of Barts, smug with satisfaction. _Got him._

* * *

And now here they were, a week later, sharing a flat and living together.

John kept fidgeting and surprisingly Sherlock couldn't help but feel pity towards the doctor, irritated by the fact he was somehow uncomfortable. John seemed to bring out several emotions in Sherlock that he'd never been able to experience before. Before John, words like "doubt" and "attraction" were just the building blocks of sentences in novels, not emotions that could be _felt._

He could tell from the corner of his eyes that the man wanted to ask him something.

But he hadn't quite gotten up the courage to do so, for some reason.

John was entirely unsure how to ask Sherlock out. He'd never in a million years believed he'd developed a romantic interest in a man, but he had grown to like the high-cheekboned detective. His features were so fine and stark, they were almost feminine. His delicate pale complexion, the gray-green almond eyes, his pouty lips and dark curls. Not to mention the way John felt just being around him. Life was never boring when Sherlock was in the picture. He'd helped John get over his psychosomatic limp, enabling him once again to move freely. For the first time since the military, Sherlock had given John freedom, a racing heart beat, the thrill of the chase, and an all new kind of thrill: the possibility for love.

"Are you going to ask me or not?" Sherlock suddenly said, jolting John from his thoughts.

The doctor blushed and sighed, refusing to look at Sherlock. "What makes you think – "

" –You've changed your seating position five times in the past three minutes, indicating that something is making you uneasy. I also can't help but notice that your head keeps turning in my direction every so often, which means whatever it is that's bothering you has something to do with me. And the reason you haven't said anything in all that time is because you've been contemplating how to phrase what it is you want to say. A statement that you spend so much time preparing can't be anything else but a question."

Watson took a deep breath, finally turning over to Sherlock. He envied the man for being so composed and calculating when he himself was a bundle of nerves and stress.

"Well…I…" _come on, the worst he can do is say he doesn't feel like going out_. "T-there's a pub at 34 Kingly called the Clachan."

"Really?"

"Yeah, I like their cheese and chutney sandwich."

"I see."

 _Ugh, for someone who's brilliant, he's completely daft_. "I was wondering if you'd be interested in going."

"Probably at some point," Sherlock said.

 _Oh God, this isn't getting me anywhere._ "With…me."

Sherlock finally looked up from his phone with a raised eyebrow. "I don't have a problem with that. When would you like to go?"

"Tonight," John finally managed to get out.

And then it became clear to Sherlock. "Oh. You're suggesting we go out for dinner."

"Yes."

Sherlock bit his lip in thought. "You want us to go together?"

"Yes," John said again, growing redder in the face with each passing second.

"On a date," Sherlock said as if it were a statement of fact.

John didn't answer, he was too flustered. _Dammit, I knew this was a bad idea._

But Sherlock's face was soon overcome with a huge grin, and he immediately leaped up from the sofa, dashing over to the rack to shrug on his dark gray wool coat. "I know of a place that's near dead at around 9:45. It's quieter and the wine there is superb. We'll kill some time in a Cab and then be on our way. I'm sure you'll like it, it's rustic yet modern and the food is –" He was talking as he was walking down the stairs and wrapping his scarf.

"Oh, God," John muttered under his breath before following behind, quickly trying to catch up.

"I'm so glad you suggested it, being cooped up for so long when there's no cases to be solved was starting to get to me."

 _You were completely cool and collected on the couch! You were lying there for hours._ John struggled to keep up with the lithe, tall detective. _What on Earth have I gotten myself into?_

* * *

"I'll have the penne a la vodka. I trust your judgment on what wine would go best," Sherlock said before his rear had even touched the chair or the Server had set down the Menus.

John rolled his eyes but blushed when he realized Sherlock had seen him.

"Very good, Sir. And you?" The waiter turned to John.

 _I haven't even touched the Menu!_ John was about to babble some inane nonsense, but Sherlock immediately answered, "He'll have a cheese and chutney sandwich with chips on the side."

"Of course, Sir. Won't be but a moment." The Server left to fetch the wine and a few glasses.

John turned to Sherlock, his eyes filled with surprise.

Sherlock shrugged as if ordering for him was the most natural thing in the world. And of course, he'd know exactly what John would want.

The fact that the earth orbits the sun was completely unimportant to him, but it was with the utmost clarity that he had John's food preferences memorized, apparently.

"To be completely honest with you, John, I've never done this before," Sherlock admitted, not betraying one shred of emotion.

John's eyes darted around the room a few times before he grew curious. "You mean…going out for dinner? We did a few nights ago, at that place on Northumberland Street."

Sherlock scoffed. "That was a _stakeout,_ not going out to dinner. We didn't have the chance to eat if you recall."

John nodded. "Well, alright, but surely you've done this at some point. With a…" John was about to say girl, but he wasn't sure about that. "Someone."

Sherlock smiled. "With a _someone_. No, you're the first. At least the first time I'm attending a restaurant for leisure and not business."

John smiled too. "Well, um…usually on occasions like this, the people…who are eating together…talk about each other."

"We're supposed to talk about each other _to_ each other?"

"Yes."

Sherlock seemed confused as if he didn't understand the relevance. "What would be the point? I know everything about you."

John scoffed. "I'm sure you do, but I don't know _anything_ about _you_." His voice was laced with regret.

"You know I have a website, you know I'm a consulting detective, you know my habits, likes dislikes, hobbies, odd tendencies. You're my flatmate, you know everything there is to know about me."

John sighed. "Not really."

"What do you wish to know?" Sherlock asked, leaning his chin on his folded hands over the table. _I'm an open book, dear Doctor._

John thought for a moment. "How did you get into all this in the first place?"

"Being a consulting detective," Sherlock said, but not in the tone one would use to ask a question.

"Yes, I was wondering why you had an interest."

Sherlock gazed openly and intensely at John, making color rise to his cheeks.

"Well…initially, I wanted to be a pirate."


	2. Date

Author's Note: Hello, everyone! I'm sorry it took me so long to update. In four words, Life Has Been CRAZY. I've recently rekindled an old flame (squeeee!) and that has taken up a lot of my time lol along with rehearsals for _Wonder of the World_ and my regular schoolwork. But I'm happy to present the heavily requested Part 2 of Dinner Date. Everyone Enjoy! : 3

-XeroSanity/Alexis

Date

John raised an eyebrow, and couldn't help but let a smile escape. "I never would've pegged you as the "pirate" type," he said.

Sherlock shrugged. "As a child, it appealed to me. Now as for why I decided to be a consulting detective…" he bit his lip in thought, his eyes wandering out the window to the right of him.

John would never admit it to himself, but he loved to watch Sherlock think. His greenish-brown eyes would glaze over like he was somewhere else, but at the same time they were extremely aware, like he could snap back into reality at any given moment.

His long musician's fingers were interlocked underneath his chin with the strength and stability of a bridge, and John could practically see the words flying around his head as he gathered his thoughts. "I'm not…entirely sure."

John was taken aback. " _You're_ not entirely sure? I don't believe you're ever _not entirely sure_ about _anything_."

"Other people and situations are easy to read because you can _see_ them, but I can't exactly see inside myself, can I?" He asked the question without a hint of sarcasm or malice. "Plus I predominantly operate on logic, so if there isn't a logical reason behind something, it doesn't make sense to me."

"So you don't think you're very logical?" This was actually becoming a very interesting conversation.

It was a better first date than most of the dinners John had attended in the past. There wasn't any fumbling around, searching for topics of conversation, or the right things to say, and it didn't take an active effort for him to listen to Sherlock dabble on and on.

John _enjoyed_ how articulated he was, and although there were times Sherlock used it in an outright display of _arrogance_ on occasion, John couldn't help but still appreciate it.

"I think I'm a _very_ logical person, but the logic behind who I am and what I want…I do not possess. Sociopaths aren't exactly the most formidable when it comes to understanding sentiment."

John smirked. "I don't think you're a sociopath…" his eyes wandered to the side, "At least not _all_ the time."

To his surprise, the detective smiled back. "I'm starting to doubt it myself." _Ever since I met_ _ **you…**_

John swallowed, happy for the distraction when the waiter came back with their food and a bottle of red wine.

After he left, Sherlock asked rhetorically, "I have the brain of a scientist or a philosopher but I elect to be a detective. So what can then be deduced about my heart?" There was hidden conviction behind his words. He truly wondered what his heart contained. Emotions were lost to him, a chest of treasure sunk to the ocean's deepest deaths and he didn't have a map of any sort.

John's eyes widened in approval when he finally bit into his meal. "Wow," was all he said before the entire sandwich was gone and he was on his second glass of wine.

Sherlock nodded to the waiter after he'd tried the wine himself, and the two men finished their food before speaking again.

"That was fantastic," John said, obviously in a much better state of mind after having some good food.

"Thank you," Sherlock said suddenly, out of the blue.

Color rose to John's cheeks and he set his wine glass down before asking, "For what?"

"For having a conversation with me while managing not to morph it into an interrogation."

John's glance eyed him up and down as if searching for a reason behind Sherlock's claim.

The detective sighed before explaining. "Most people who meet me ask me questions to figure out how I _work_ as opposed to who I _**am**_. To certain individuals like Donovan, Anderson or even Lestrade, I'm a puzzle to be put together, or a machine whose cogs need to be analyzed to discover what it is that makes me tick. But to _you_ …" he trailed off, as if not sure of it himself.

John nervously took another sip of his wine, his eyes meeting Sherlock's.

"…I'm just a person," he finished, taking his wine glass and beginning to trace his finger along the rim of it.

"That's not true," John stated, unable to look away from the display. "You're not just a person to me," he said almost inaudibly.

But Sherlock heard him. "That's an even _bigger_ surprise. I mean, you're a _doctor,_ doctors don't even see _ordinary_ people as people. They are bodies labeled "patient" or "the deceased" or even "corpse." To doctors, humans are a collection of woven limbs, organs and skin."

"You make us sound so appealing," John grinned, laughing softly.

Without warning, Sherlock irrevocably changed the subject. "Why did you ask me out to dinner tonight?"

John swallowed, straightening his once relaxes posture. "Why are you asking?" he countered shyly.

Sherlock looked up from his glass. "Because I genuinely don't know."

And just like that, John's heart sank and he clammed up.

He didn't notice. _Of course_ he didn't notice. He probably wasn't even interested in John in the _slightest_. And why _would_ he be? A roughened, broken down military man who still wakes in the middle of the night from having nightmares? A boring old fart who never took sugar in his tea? Why would Sherlock of all people be interested in _anyone_ , let alone _him_?

"I don't understand why such a caring, kind, sharp, brave and level-headed man such as yourself would ever want to associate with someone like me."

John was stunned.

"You're loyal to a fault, a man of unquestionable honor, and of a sound state of mind. Mostly."

He scoffed.

"So it begs the question why an arrogant, self-entitled sociopath such as myself would be of any interest to you in the first place."

John's brows furrowed together, nervous about how to word what he wanted to say. "It's like you said. Matters of sentiment are difficult to understand because there isn't any logic behind them."

"You're sentimental towards me," Sherlock's eyebrow raised.

John averted his eyes. "Yes."

Sherlock took note of John's shy and submissive body language. "You're _more_ than sentimental."

John took a deep breath and another sip of wine. "Yes."

The detective's eyes widened subtly. "You… _fancy_ me."

That time, John didn't respond. He poured some more wine for himself, giving himself some sort of business to distract from the question.

Sherlock continued on as if trying to reassure himself. "There's nothing wrong with having a romantic interest in a man," he said, the gentlest John had ever heard his voice be.

It was almost a question. "The fact that you're a man isn't the problem," John swallowed, his stomach pooling with anxiety.

"What is, then?" Sherlock asked, genuine curiosity shining in his eyes.

John was bewildered. Wait…it wasn't possible that Sherlock reciprocated what John was feeling…

"Well…you said you consider yourself married to your work, and I've tried to respect that," he admitted honestly. It was the closest to a declaration of love John could muster. In other words, _I care about you, but there is another._

Sherlock pondered for a minute, remembering the instance he said that and instantly regretting it. "Initially, I was hesitant about getting close to you. I didn't know you'd turn out to be such an engaging partner in crime, in a manner of speaking."

John had snicker. They _solved_ crimes, they didn't _cause_ them.

He waves his hand dismissively. "Poor choice of words, I know, but moving on. I was used to working alone, so I had no idea that I would not only come to _enjoy_ your company, but _depend_ on it."

John decided to continue down the path of honesty. "I've come to be dependent on your company as well. I enjoy it."

Occurrences such as 2:00 a.m. violin-playing, eyeballs in the refrigerator and late night skulking in alley ways have become an almost normal routine for John. In the end of the day, he enjoyed being a part of Sherlock's life and work, going around collecting evidence or talking to witnesses, knowing he was a part of something bigger than himself. Something exhilarating.

"That was a surprise to me as well. I thought after a week of living with me you'd have either committed suicide, been admitted to the nearest Psych Ward or at the very lost ten pounds from having to search for food in our fridge."

John all-out laughed. "Yes, it's been…odd. Definitely different, but…now I can't imagine living any other way."

Sherlock was surprised to feel his heart beating faster in his chest. Why did such words out John's mouth make him so happy and relieved? "Well, I _am_ married to my work. But in case you weren't aware, you happen to be _part_ of my work."

John's heart skipped a beat. _What it is exactly that you're saying?_

Sherlock answered his unspoken question. "You're my Assistant, after all. You've risked your life for me on multiple occasions, broken several laws while under my wing without thinking twice about it, and although you yourself are not up to my level of intelligence – "

John rolled his eyes.

" – You know what I mean," he immediately said, "Despite that, you are an excellent catalyst for my intellect."

It secretly pleased John to be regarded in such a way. "Well…anyway…so what are you saying? That because I'm part of your work we're… _married_?" The prospect of being married to Sherlock was…

Well, there wasn't really a word exactly. John was a fool in love and overcome with sentiment but he wasn't completely _off his rocker._

Sherlock smiled. "I'm saying that since I consider you part of my work, I'm as intimate and passionate with you as I am about solving crimes. You hold a great deal of significance in my life."

John nervously went to grab the bottle so he could pour himself some more wine but when he leaned over to grab it, Sherlock quickly sat straight and leaned up to plant the softest, most innocent kiss on John's mouth.

Time stood still.

John thought it was an accident at first.

But the smallest movement of Sherlock bottom lip against his was the indication to John that it was _very_ deliberate.

He longed to kiss back but the doctor was frozen in his surprise and shock. Before he could recover, Sherlock pulled away, leaving a small dab of moisture on John's lips.

"What I'm _saying_ ," Sherlock whispered his eyes locked with the Doctor's, "Is this dinner is long overdue."


End file.
